


Vent.

by toxiccyborg



Series: Late Night Poetry w/ Cyborg [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Almost nothing i write is from personal experience, I thought i should post these somewhere so, Poetry, Slam Poetry, Suicide mention, descriptions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11596134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxiccyborg/pseuds/toxiccyborg
Summary: This is a vent poem I wrote a while back, proceed with caution.TW: Cutting, suicide, blood, text gore, graphic descriptions of violence.This work is not for the feint of heart.





	Vent.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to say this again, proceed with caution! I was in a very dark place when I wrote this and I'm much better compared to here, but there are many triggers exploited in this work! 
> 
> ALSO: This is poetry, it may not mean the same thing to everyone. This poem is one of the few I did write based on my own experiences. Please do not console me, or offer help. I am not looking for pitty or attention.

I'm counting down the days til I die with the lines on my thighs and I think I'm going to run out of room

    For my thighs keep getting smaller with every meal that I skip, but they will never be small enough 

    The caffeine in my veins doesn't stop the constant pain and ache that's settled it way into my brain and chest

    The countless sketches and poems do nothing to help me claw my way out of my own rib cage

    Every blade that I see causes constant memories to flood of the day that I most regret 

    God knows that I try but every day before I die is another day that I soon despise 

    Because one day won't be enough to stop the constant blood that runs down my skin in a dirty bathtub 

    And no matter how I try, my mind and body will deny any scrap of help that is offered 

    This voice in my head tells me I should be dead instead and then the ache in my chest will dissappear

     I know this is the selfish way out but I just don't know how to shout for help when I don't even control my own voice half the time I'm awake

    My brain goes on autopilot to hide my constant hatred of myself to make other people happy  
   
   I tear my body and soul apart for the enjoyment of others, because I don't matter but everyone else does and they deserve to have what I cannot 

    So as I glance down at these pills, or as I'm hanging up a rope, I can't help but hope that somebody, anybody, will miss me in this godforsaken Hell we call earth


End file.
